At some point, he offers me a beer from a tiny fridge wedged under a makeshift workbench. I accept, though I rarely drink, and he pours the bottle into a pair of glasses before handing one to me.
“To surviving the storm,” he says.
“To starting over,” I reply, surprising myself.
We drink, and the beer is cold and bitter and exactly what I need.
Sunset crawls up the windows, turning the ocean glassy and gold. Nathan leads me up a set of stairs to the narrow loft, where there’s a futon and an old army blanket folded with military precision. There are more paintings here, smaller and more raw. Quick studies of hands, bodies, the lost profiles of people I don’t recognize.
The painting of the lighthouse is here, as well, nestled among the clutter. “Is it finished?” I ask.
“No, not yet. I can’t seem to find the right light for it.”
“Well, you’d better hurry, or else Sara won’t be around to see it finished.” The words hang heavy in the air, and I wish I could reel them back in.
“I know,” he says, eyes downcast.
Before the melancholy can seize us, he leads me to a painting that’s only half-finished, a woman on a windswept beach, hair whipped across her face, the horizon behind her smeared with indigo and rust. “She’s not done,” he says, and I can’t tell if he means the painting or the woman. “Sometimes I think it’s better that way.”
We stand side by side, so close I can feel the heat of him along my shoulder. He smells like soap and something resinous,maybe pine. I want to touch the painting, to run my thumb along the edge, but instead I rest my hand on the frame.
Nathan turns, and I feel the movement before I see it. His face is inches from mine, his mouth slightly open. The kiss starts so tentatively it’s almost an accident, just the barest brush of lips, but it blooms quickly.
He tastes of beer and adrenaline. His hands are careful, one at my waist, the other skimming up my back, fingers splayed wide as if mapping the territory of my body. I lean into him, let my own hands find his hips, the ribbed curve of his spine, the warm slope of his neck.
The rest is a blur, the kind that happens when sensation eclipses thought. Our bodies are drawn together by gravity and hunger, the space between us shrinking until there’s nothing left but heat and the rasp of skin against skin.
Nathan pulls me to the futon, and the two of us collapse onto the mattress, mouths pressed together, limbs tangled in a messy geometry. He pulls off my shirt as if unwrapping a gift he’s waited years to open. I shiver, nerves flaring, but he steadies me with a hand at the back of my neck, thumb tracing slow circles along my hairline.
I tug at his shirt in return, surprised by the feel of his chest—warm, solid, a dusting of hair that prickles under my palms. He laughs into my mouth, a low, rough sound, and the vibration settles somewhere between my heart and my thighs.
We break apart only long enough to catch our breath. My bra comes off with a practiced one-handed flick, and we just stare at each other. Me, breathless and half-naked. Him, lips parted, pupils blown wide.
“Are you sure?” he whispers, forehead pressed to mine.
Instead of answering, I pull him down to me, fitting our mouths together with a new certainty.
His hands are everywhere. Cupping my breasts, tracing the line of my ribs, skating down my stomach to the waistband of my skirt. He slides it down, his fingers trailing goosebumps in their wake, and I arch into the sensation, thighs parting without thought.
He hesitates, searching my face for reluctance, but I am nothing but want, and the slow-burn thrill of being wanted back.
He kisses a path down my throat, over my collarbone, pausing to worship each new inch of skin. I bury my hands in his hair, guiding him, and when his mouth closes around my nipple, I gasp, hips jerking up against him. He holds me steady, one arm curled under my back, his tongue and teeth working together in a rhythm that unties every last knot inside me.
I reach for him, eager to return the favor, and he helps me, guiding my fingers to the buckle of his belt. There is a moment of breathless anticipation as I fumble with the clasp before he’s free, a sigh escaping him that reverberates through me like a promise. I trail a path downward, the rough hair against my fingertips, the softness and hardness of him that makes my breath hitch.
He runs his fingers along the inside of my thigh, teasingly slow until he reaches the top, and oh, how I've missed this.
His touch is teasing, playful, yet so very skilled. A sigh escapes me, a sound I hardly recognize as my own. His fingers trace patterns that send lightning bolts of pleasure along my spine. He watches me closely, his gaze intense and fixed, taking in every twitch of delight that crosses my face.
Eventually, he settles between my legs, lining himself up but not moving, not yet. “Still sure?” he asks again, voice shredded.
I answer by wrapping my legs around his waist and guiding him in.
He slides into me slow, slow, slow, the stretch both blissful and a little painful, the way a long-held breath aches before it’sreleased. We move together, bodies falling into a rhythm as old as the tides. His hand brackets my hip, holding me open for him, and every thrust drives me further from the world I knew.
The room echoes with our shared breathing, punctuated by soft affirmations whispered into the hollow of each other's ear. His fingers anchor into my skin, leaving a memory of touch that I know will linger long after we've untangled ourselves. He whispers my name, the syllables broken up by ragged exhales as he moves, each stroke deeper than the last. I arch up to meet him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, nails digging into the heat of his skin.
His eyes flutter open and lock onto mine. They're the dark blue of a stormy sea, filled with an intensity that leaves me breathless.